Silas’s face went from flushed to a mottled purple. His hand dropped to the hilt of the sword at his waist.

"You dare—"

"I do." Damon cut him off, his voice still that same calm, conversational tone.

"You’re standing in a public gallery, threatening a guest of the Azure Dragon Sect and a patron of this auction house."

"Your family ’claimed’ the pill? The bidding hasn’t started. Your words mean nothing here except as a display of your own insecurity."

A gasp went through the crowd. Someone choked back a laugh.

Silas’s four friends shifted, their hands moving to their own weapons, forming a loose half-circle around Damon.

Mei let out a soft, delighted sigh, as if watching a particularly interesting play. She made no move to help.

Lumina edged half a step closer to Damon’s side, her disguised face pale.

Damon didn’t look at any of them. He kept his eyes on Silas, watching the rage boil behind the young master’s eyes.

He could feel the idiot’s spiritual energy gathering, a turbulent, messy swirl of earth and metal affinity. It was all bluster, no control.

’He’s going to swing, He’s too stupid not to.’Damon thought.

"You think your backwater sect protects you?" Silas spat, his knuckles white on his sword.

"I’ll cut you down right here and my father will thank me for removing trash from his city!"

He began to draw the blade.

The crowd scrambled back, creating a wide, empty circle around them.

Damon didn’t move. He didn’t summon his wooden sword or let out his aura. He just stood there, hands loose at his sides.

As the gleaming steel cleared the scabbard, Damon moved.

It wasn’t a flashy technique. He didn’t use Astral Step.

He simply stepped forward and his left hand shot out.

His fingers closed around Silas’s wrist, right above the guard.

The grip was firm, absolute, and utterly immovable.

Silas jerked, trying to wrench his arm free. His face twisted with effort, his cultivation surging.

Damon’s hand didn’t budge an inch.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so only Silas and his closest friends could hear.

"You feel that? That’s the difference between someone who plays at being strong, and someone who is strong. You’re embarrassing yourself. And you’re embarrassing your family name in front of the entire capital."

He applied the faintest increase of pressure, a subtle channeling of his true Heavenly Spirit Realm strength through his fingertips.

A bone in Silas’s wrist gave a tiny, audible pop.

Silas’s eyes went wide, not with pain, but with shock. The sword trembled in his grip.

He couldn’t move his arm. He couldn’t break the hold. The reality of his situation crashed down on him, cold and heavy.

Damon held his gaze for a three-count longer, letting the humiliation sink in, then released him and took a smooth step back.

"The auction rules prohibit violence in the preview hall." Damon said, his voice now carrying to the stunned onlookers.

"I suggest you respect them. Unless you’d like to explain to the auction masters why a Reventon heir started a brawl over hurt feelings."

Silas cradled his wrist, his sword hanging uselessly. His friends stared, uncertain, their bravado evaporated.

The silence in the gallery was thick enough to chew.

Then, a new voice cut through it, smooth as oiled silk and cold as a glacier’s heart.

"It seems my nephew requires a lesson in manners."

The crowd parted like wheat before a scythe.

A man in deep emerald robes walked toward them, his steps silent on the polished floor.

He looked to be in his late forties, with sharp, aristocratic features and hair the color of iron.

His eyes were the pale green of frost on a leaf, and they held no warmth at all.

His cultivation was a restrained, deep well of power. King Spirit Realm, at least.

Mei’s playful demeanor vanished. She straightened, her posture becoming formal, wary.

"Uncle." Silas croaked, his face draining of all color, his earlier fury replaced by pure dread.

The man ignored him. His frost-green eyes settled on Damon, appraising him with the detached interest of a collector examining a new insect.

"You must are Damon. The sword prodigy from the Azure Dragon Sect that i heard about from Kai."

"I am Alistair Reventon. Head of the Guard for the Reventon Family."

He offered a thin, humorless smile.

"My nephew’s... action... is regrettable. You handled him with restraint. For that, you have my thanks."

The words were polite. The tone was anything but.

It was a threat wrapped in velvet, a warning delivered with a smile.

Alistair’s gaze flicked to Mei, acknowledging her with a slight, respectful nod.

"Lady Mei. A pleasure to meet you, as always."

Then his eyes returned to Damon, and the false warmth drained away.

"The hall is for viewing item, not a place for settling petty disputes. I trust we understand each other. The real competition begins when the auction starts."

He placed a hand on Silas’s shoulder. The grip made the younger man flinch.

"Come, nephew. You have disgraced us enough for one day."

He turned, leading a utterly broken Silas away, his green-robed back a silent promise of future trouble.

The crowd began to murmur again, the tension bleeding away into excited gossip.

Mei moved to Damon’s side. "Well, You’ve certainly made an impression. Alistair Reventon doesn’t thank people."

Damon watched the man leave, his own expression unreadable.

’He’s the real threat. I have to be careful.’ he thought.

Lumina let out a shaky breath she’d been holding.

"What now?" she whispered.

Damon finally looked away from the retreating Reventons.

He turned back toward the display cases, as if the entire confrontation had been a minor distraction.

"Now, we should finish what we actually want to do." he said.

He the move and stopped in front of the next display.

Inside the shimmering barrier was not a pill or an artifact, but it was a broken black sword with only half of its blade remaining.